


Under Pressure

by Shoi



Series: Deep Cuts [2]
Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoi/pseuds/Shoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A living Messiah poses the danger of loving in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> storms.

Most men, in Sol's experience, were stifled by unpleasant weather. It was especially bad with an army in the field, where the only shelter from rain and storm was hasty and manmade, and only as steady as the hands of the soldier who had constructed it. In the summer wet weather, everything grew muggy and muddy, thick and sticky oxygen almost indistinguishable from equally thick and sticky earth. Even Sol began to feel as though he'd never be clean again, and though cleanliness mattered little to him in the long run of a war, his compatriots decidedly did not agree. The rain was not clean thanks to the burning ash of razed towns and immolated Gears, and it fell black and grey into any potential natural water supply. There was none to spare for bathing.

The smell of the company became unbearable to Sol after only a few days, the thick, living-warm stench of human bodies desperately expelling sweat to gain some natural relief from heat, of feet not removed even once from road-worn boots in days, even for sleeping, of the oily slick near taste of dirty human hair. Probably, he thought, they stunk to themselves as well, but for his overly sensitive nose -- designed for tracking, for hunting, for smelling blood from miles away -- it was more than just unpleasant. The occasional copper hint of blood didnt make it any better, as much as he hated himself for hoping it would. 

Even the boy smelled a bit, which in some moments amused Sol more than anything else. People did not expect their saviors to stink of human exertion, but Ky Kiske was, as always, much more human than the rest of the world assumed him to be. And his armor was heavier than most, so it wasn't uncommon to see him at the head or the center of the marching column, astride his gleaming golden horse -- a gift from Undersn, Sol suspected, meant more as an encouragement of the boy's image than as an offering of practical assistance -- his pale face glowing with clammy damp, his strong young shoulders heaving a little more than they should have under all that steel and copper. 

The difference between Ky and his men, however, was that when the rain came, Ky didn't scurry into a convenient tent or under a tarp to wait it out. Sol had watched him at it more than once, during evening camps. While the soldiers grumbled and made preparations to brace up against the wet, Ky would slip away, leaving behind the spitting and hissing campfires and the warm lantern glow for some space of his own out in the rainy darkness. The first time, Sol only watched him leave, until he was out of sight over the crest of the next hill, and he'd thought that it was pretty fucking stupid for the Commander of the entire Order to go off by himself when the possibility of encountering any number of unfamiliar and extremely aggressive Gears was so high. 

The second time, however, Sol got up from the stump he'd been huddled on, discarded the damp cigarette he'd been grumpily trying to light, and followed him.

The boy wasn't far, as it turned out -- merely out of sight of the camp in some desperate approximation of privacy. He was dressed in a loose fitting undershirt and soft, flexible under-armor leggings, along with what looked like his oldest pair of boots, judging by the scuffs and ruined stiffness of the leather. The rain was especially heavy tonight, and the low creek that lined the valley between the hills was swollen far past its usual bank. 

Ky had waded in up to his knees, and was standing there, watching the water. The sky rumbled threateningly overhead, and Sol nearly called out a sardonic warning before he remembered how little danger a lightning strike actually posed. 

Instead he said, "Taking a shower?"

Ky didn't startle. He turned in a deliberate movement, as though he'd been expecting Sol all along. "Sort of," he replied, and he smiled, that particularly odd and frustrating smile that Sol couldn't read nor quantify. "It's very warm."

"It's pretty gross," Sol said, coming down the rest of the way to stand on the bank a few feet behind him. He could feel the droplets zinging and sizzling off his bare arms, disappearing in little puffs of steam. "I haven't seen a clean rainfall since we crossed the Wallachia border." 

"It's cleaner here," Ky said, "Because of the mountain runoff. Look."

He bent and scooped up some of the creek between his cupped hands. His palms were a little muddied, but visible through the water. 

Sol lifted an eyebrow. The boy smiled again. 

"I trained for a few years in the lower Alps," he said, by way of explanation. Another rumble of thunder punctuated his words. "Water than runs down a mountain is often clearer the closer one gets to the top. And anyway, it's preferable to being caked with mud for days." He splashed the water in his hands against his face, and then to Sol's surprise he laughed shortly, and shook his head, like a young horse ridding itself of a fly. "You should try it," he said, looking up at Sol. The water was dripping from his hair and even his eyelashes. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who smells awful."

Sol closed his mouth against the gape that had formed and shook his head. "I'd just evaporate most of it," he said, and allowed himself a small grin. The boy's eyes were bright with friendly amusement, and it made him feel strange, an uncomfortable mixture of displeasure and something like longing. It hadn't been that long ago that Ky's every word to him was a curt reprimand or nothing more than a wearied sigh. He didn't know at what point that had changed, and it made him nervous. 

"Suit yourself." Ky turned away, and waded out into the water again, until it surged and slapped just below his chest. With his back to Sol, he peeled off his already wet shirt, tossing it towards the bank, and then in a swift and practiced movement he ducked his head under the water, reaching up with both hands to scrub his hands through his hair. Lightning flashed, visible this time, spearing down through the sky to strike one of the far off hilltops, and Sol again, inexplicably felt the urge to call out danger, to wade into the water himself and yank the boy out by the arm for his own good. He knew as well as anyone that electric current couldn't do any harm to a electricity elemental, and more than that he knew that Ky could more or less look after himself perfectly well, but some instinct still cried the alarm, overpowering good sense. He stood silent on the bank, feeling the unwarranted tension in his shoulders, and tried to decide what was happening to him. 

_You are giving a shit, Freddie. You're giving a big old shit about this pious little brat, and it's taking over. That's what's happening._

"Why?" he said aloud, trying to answer that voice inside his head, as always. "What the hell _for?_ "

Ky emerged again, tossing the excess water off his hair, and it was true that he did look significantly cleaner than before. He wiped the water from his eyes, and looked over at Sol. 

"Everything all right?" he said, frowning slightly. "You look a bit..."

"I'm fine." Sol shook his head and folded his arms. "Just wet as hell, kid." 

Ky shrugged, splashing more water under his arms, and Sol watched the movement of all the finely tuned muscles in his chest and stomach, the graceful art of his body in motion, the lines of his face as they were highlighted by another, somewhat closer spear of lightning. He wondered, vaguely, who else had looked at the boy like this, and what it was they'd seen. The second coming of David, perhaps, or the corpse of Jesus in the Pieta, depicted in that strange Renaissance theme of beautiful male youth in the throes of mortal suffering, or already past the threshold of death. Perfectly formed and lovely, but already slain for a greater cause, and now helpless to control how he was gazed upon, and by who. A life unimportant, save for what it represented in both beauty and sacrifice. 

He'd written a paper on the subject during his undergrad at Colombia, and he remembered that he'd gone on pretty long-winded about the symbolism of control and permissible sexualization of holy entities in the Christian tradition. _The Holy ideal,_ he'd written, _is deeply enamored of an obedient corpse. It is not so fond of the living man, who can all too easily explain himself and his intentions. A Messiah's love can never be anything but pure and widespread. His heart does not belong to him, in the eyes of the idolizers -- it is the property of the world, and of each individual who feels that they are faithful enough, worthy. It is allowable to love and desire the dead, to sexualize and elevate the beautiful corpse, with whom one cannot consummate sin. A living Messiah poses the danger of loving in return._

He'd gotten great marks for that one.

_What do you think it means, Freddie?_

"It means shut up," he muttered. Ky glanced at him, lifting his eyebrows. Most of the muddy filth was gone from his face and body, and he was trying to tuck his hair out of his face again. 

"Are you talking to me?"

"No." Incongruously, Sol grinned. It made him feel a little more in control. "Myself. I'm kind of weird like that."

"You're kind of 'weird' like a great many things," Ky replied. He began to slosh towards the shore, and Sol went forward to meet him automatically. He held out a hand to help the boy out again, and Ky took it with an air of expectation, as though this was the reason Sol had been waiting here all along. 

"Thank you," he said, and promptly stumbled one one of the loose rocks on the bank. Sol pulled him forward easily, and the boy crashed against his chest instead of back into the water. Sol felt his fingers catch in the soaked material of his shirt, felt and heard his startled little huff of breath, and saw the brief flash of paler color in his blue eyes as his power surged briefly within him. 

Sol felt like he should be embarrassed, at least a little. It was the oldest cliche in the book, the fall and grab, key moment in every one of the sappy romantic comedies he'd ever been subjected to. But that was a world gone, now, and if Ky knew there was a reason to feel self-conscious, he gave no sign of it. He held on to Sol, and Sol slipped his other arm around the boy's shoulders to steady him properly, and for a moment they stood like that, drenched together. 

"I promise I am not naturally a clumsy person," Ky murmured at last. "You merely have a habit of coming to me when I am at my worst." He drew back a little, and smiled ruefully at Sol, nearly tall enough to look him in the eye. He was gripping Sol's hand tightly still, as though worried he'd fall again. The unpleasant smell of his body order was gone, and instead Sol could smell ozone, and boy's own, clean scent.

"I guess I have that effect on you," Sol said, unable to keep the slight huskiness out of his voice. He shifted, and untangled himself from Ky's grip, leaving a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Fine, yes." The boy's cheeks were a bit pink, and he turned away to retrieve his wet shirt. "I suppose it is you, and my constant anxiety over what sort of issue you'll be causing for me next." He wrung the shirt out and slipped it back on, and began to walk back towards the hill without looking at Sol, soaked boots sloshing in the mud. "In any case, thank you for your assistance."

Sol wasn't a fool, despite what people frequently shouted at him. Ky's retreat had the distinct air of embarrassed frustration. Sol stared after him, heart sinking. 

_The Messiah is not a free creature, and never will be, even in his death._

_Do you get it now, Freddie?_

"No," he said, both in answer and in futile attempt to stem the understanding that had flooded into his brain. "No." 

Overhead, the thunder rolled, as though to remind him of just how little control he really had. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, wet hair plastered to his forehead, and trudged after Ky, feeling heavier now than he ever had in over two hundred years.


End file.
